


Creepfest

by poppunkwolf



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Abduction, Based on a Creepypasta, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Character of Color, Canon Lesbian Character, Children, Creepy, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Death, Domestic, Drabble, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Family, Female Character of Color, Gen, Haunting, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Relationship(s), Romance, Sad, Tragedy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7141532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppunkwolf/pseuds/poppunkwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of creepy short stories based on the best creepypastas around. Each chapter is an independent one shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calling (Annalise Keating & Ophelia Harkness)

The first year of college had taught Annalise about the freedom of being away from her mama’s constant fussing and demands. But the following summer was full of rules and bickering and counting the days until school started again.

 

One evening she heard a shriek from the kitchen. “Anna Mae!” her mother yelled. “Anna Mae, get in here!”

She came down the stairs into the kitchen and saw a large crow crouched on the kitchen table. Her mother was screaming in a rage, “Get on up out my kitchen you demon! Get out! Get out of here!” as she waved a broom wildly at the creature.

The bird cawed and swooped about, but he seemed determined to keep landing on the table. The kitchen door was wide open, but instead of leaving, the bird dodged and pecked at the broom in a battle for the table space.

Mama continued screaming and hurling insults, practically in tears, as she waved the broom at the poor bird who must have been too afraid to leave.

“Mama, just put the broom down,” Annalise said. “It’ll calm down and go out the door.”

“Uh uh, I will not let this thing set itself on my table,” Mama insisted, waving the broom with wild energy. “Not in my house!”

“Mama!’ Annalise wrestled the broom from her. “Just calm down.”

Mama tried to wrench the broom back, but could not overpower her, and in the moments that the kerfuffle shifted to them from the crow, the bird settled defiantly on the kitchen table and pointed one eye at them.

They fell into a lull, and Annalise felt an eerie shiver run up her spine. She felt her mama, still clinging to her, also shudder.

They stared at the bird, unable to move, then it got up and flew out the kitchen door.

Mama ran to the door and shut it, then locked the two locks. She looked out through the curtains.

Annalise could see that she was shaking with terror.

“That wasn’t no bird,” Mama said. “My mama always said, and everybody at church will tell you too, if a bird fly up in your house and try to get on the table or a bed, that’s a demon.”

Annalise shook off her chilled feeling and tried not to roll her eyes. “Mama, the table is the biggest surface in here besides the floor, so of course if you leave the kitchen door open and a bird comes in, he might try to get on the table.”

Her mama’s head jerked to face her. “I didn’t have this door open. I was in here fixin to make dinner with the door closed. And then it was in here like it had been all along, but it wasn’t.”

Annalise was caught off guard for just a moment, then said, “Okay, we don’t know how it got here. You don’t have to get yourself worked up over it. It’s gone now, and…” She became distracted as she followed her mama’s gaze to the porch outside, where the rocking chair swayed in the wind. “Let’s not worry over nothing,” she finished.

Her mama went to the cupboards and pulled out a saucer, and from another cabinet, some salt. She poured the salt into the saucer until it sat in a tiny mountain, then she placed it at the window sill. “I know you think you too smart to believe what’s going on, but you’ll see, Anna Mae.”

“It’s Annalise,” she corrected. “Can you at least try to call me that?” She marched into the living room after her mama, and practically crashed into her when Mama halted abruptly.

There was a portrait Mama’s friend had once painted of the family, based on a photo they had all taken when Annalise and her siblings were little. It had been hanging near the mantle for years. But now it was on the ground in front of the fireplace.

“Did you do this?” Mama asked.

“Why would I put our portrait on the floor?” Annalise asked. “It must’ve just fallen.”

Mama went over to the painting and gingerly picked it up. “I don’t want you going out tonight with your lil friends,” she said. “Ain’t no telling what will happen to you if I’m not there to look out for you.”

“So you want me to stay here and get haunted with you?” Annalise replied sarcastically.

“No, we need to get a bell and some candles-“

“I don’t wanna do this,” Annalise said. “It’s silly. I’ll be in my room if you need me for something that’s not a superstition.” She turned and traipsed up the stairs.

“Anna Mae, get your behind back down here!”

“I just wanna be called Annalise,” she said, looking back down at Mama.

“You real lucky lil girl that I got bigger things on my mind than your bad attitude.”

She sulked up the stairs and shut the door.

 

Hours later, she was reading in bed when she heard the sound of Mama calling her from downstairs again.

“Annalise!” came her mama’s voice. “Annalise, get in here!”

She sighed as she got up. She opened the bedroom door and noted that it was strangely freezing, weird for summer but especially unusual since the dead air outside hadn’t given them so much as a breeze in days.

“Annalise, come down these stairs ‘fore I have to come up there and get you myself!”

“Hold, on, I’m-”

She stopped when she saw her mama open the door and emerge from the bedroom right across the hall. In one sweeping motion, Mama pulled her into her bedroom and shut the door.

“Don’t go down there, Anna Mae,” Mama said. “I heard that, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the creepypasta by comparativelysane:  
> "You hear your mom calling you into the kitchen. As you are heading down the stairs you hear a whisper from the closet saying 'Don’t go down there honey, I heard it too.'"


	2. Kaliyah (Laurel Castillo / Michaela Pratt)

“We are not going to spy on our children.” Michaela stood cross-armed in the doorway of the attic as Laurel rifled through the box labeled “Inez and Ciera’s Baby Items”.

“I found it!” Laurel pulled the baby monitor equipment from the box and looked at Michaela triumphantly. “It’s not spying, don’t be so dramatic, honey. And besides, you were fine with it before.”

“When they were _babies_ -“

“And age five is _still_ babies,” Laurel said, closing the box. She came closer to Michaela in the doorway and embraced her into a hug that Michaela stubbornly and sulkingly accepted. “I just really suspect that one of them is sleepwalking,” Laurel said, “and if we see it in action we can protect her from hurting herself.”

“Or freaking us all the hell out,” Michaela added with a tone of reluctant agreement.

 

_“Girls, this is your last chance to get to the table or you won’t have time to eat,” Michaela called upstairs, standing at the bottom step._

_Seconds later, Inez and Ciera emerged from their bedroom in identical blue plaid uniform dresses. In Inez’ hands was her jewelry kit and Ciera held her on-the-go Lego box. They each set their toys on the table as they sat down to their breakfasts._

_“You two don’t want to bring your dolls to show and tell?” Michaela asked._

_“Yeah, they said you should bring your most favorite toy,” Laurel agreed._

_Inez perked up. “This_ is _my favorite! I like to pretend I’m a fashion designer.”_

_“And I’m gonna build a robot and show everybody and I want to learn how to make it move around,” Ciera added gleefully._

_Michaela glanced at Laurel and noted that her wife shared her charmed smile. “Both of those sound fun. I just always thought these toys were your second favorites, since I know you can’t sleep without your Kaliyah dolls.”_

_Laurel added, “It’s always so cute to come in to wake you up and see you each in bed curled up with your dolls.” Across the table, she booped each of their noses, to their giggles._

_Inez asked, “Is that why you always put them in there with us, Mama?”_

_“Put what where?”_

_Ciera turned quizzically to Michaela. “Or is it you, Mommy?”_

_“Is what who?” Michaela asked._

_Inez sighed. “The Kaliyah dolls.”_

_“What about them?”_

_“How do they end up in our bed with us every night?”_

_Michaela turned to Laurel and saw in her a mirrored apprehension. “Babies, we thought you always get up to get them.”_

_The girls looked at each other with the same unsettled confusion Michaela had just shared with Laurel._

_“We don’t,” Ciera said._

 

“There.” Laurel set the baby monitor on the girls’ shelf. She tuned into the corresponding monitor and showed it to Michaela. “See, we’ll have a view of both beds, and I know we can’t see the whole shelf from this angle, but we’ll see if either of them gets up to go to it.”

“How does she get up every night and put the doll in her own bed and the other one in her sister’s?” Michaela asked.

Laurel gave her a reassuring squeeze around her waist. “We’ll find out tonight.”

 

When they tucked the girls into bed, Michaela almost asked them, out of habit, if they wanted their Kaliyah dolls. Putting the dolls in bed with them would’ve ruined the whole operation. But only if they had said yes, and that was the thing: They never did.

In the mornings, she would always come to wake them, and they’d get up, make their beds, and dutifully put their dolls back on the shelf.

Why hadn’t they questioned how they got there?

In their bedroom, she and Laurel settled side by side at the foot of their bed with the monitor. The reading lamp near the bed gave them just enough dim light to see each other.

“Okay, this might take hours but we’ll be able to see everything and finally get this settled,” Laurel assured her. She put her head on Michaela’s shoulder as Michaela held the monitor.

“Look at them,” Michaela said. “I love how Inez always curls up on her side with her hands tucked under her head like she’s doing a classic sleeping pose, while Ciera just lays there wild with her limbs and the covers every which way.”

Laurel got up and dragged her side table to sit in front of them at the foot of the bed. “You’re gonna get tired of holding the monitor,” she said, taking it from Michaela and placing it before them. She put her arm around Michaela’s waist. “Why didn’t we get the monitor with video playback? Then we wouldn’t have to be on this stakeout – we’d just wake up and replay.”

“Because we wanted the one with night vision and the most HD clarity, and none of those had play back,” she answered. “Not that this resolution is amazing in the dark. I can’t wait to get a better one for the next baby.”

“Next baby, huh?” Laurel ribbed her playfully. “You were freaked out when we found out we were having two.”

“Two at once was the detail I was surprised by,” Michaela countered. “But now it’s different. Now I know that when things don’t go perfectly as planned, it can be twice as wonderful.”

She felt her wife kiss her cheek. “Agreed, and also agreed that this monitor was never great. I have so many flashbacks of us cursing this thing.”

“I know, but we can see them well enough for now,” Michaela said.

“But we can’t see the details of their expressions. I know I’ll see if one of them gets up, but I want to be able to tell how asleep she seems to be.”

“If she does get up, it’ll be obvious she’s sleepwalking,” Michaela said. “What, do you think she’s doing it while wide awake and just lying about it?”

“I’m gonna go plug in their night light,” Laurel said, standing. “I’ll be right back.”

“No, just friggin sit down,” Michaela found herself whining. “You’ll wake them up and then we’ll have to start over and it’ll be tedious.”

“I won’t wake them,” Laurel said.

“You know what light sleepers they are, but you know what, whatever.” Michaela threw up her hands. She looked back at the baby monitor. It was blank. “Dammit, it’s on sleep mode now. It’s giving us audio but not video.”

“Just press the top button to turn it back on,” Laurel said, as Michaela was doing exactly that.

“Obviously I know how to use the baby monitor,” Michaela snapped. “I just want to bring it to your attention that you didn’t take it off of the setting where it slips into sleep mode.”

“Uh, neither did you.”

“Uh, you were the one who dragged it out of the attic and set it up in the kids’ room. All I did was hold it right now.”

Laurel’s eyes widened, suddenly locked on the monitor. “What. The. Hell?”

Michaela followed Laurel’s gaze to the screen.

Their daughters each lay in their beds, and tucked in under the covers, nudged right next to each of them, was a Kaliyah doll.

“When did that happen?” Laurel asked in a grave whisper.

“Obviously right now while the screen was blank because somebody didn’t put it on the right setting,” Michaela shot back. “But still: What the hell?”

“That didn’t seem like nearly enough time for either of them to get up and go to the shelf, get the dolls, then get back in bed.” Laurel peered closer to the camera.

“They didn’t,” Michaela said, feeling chills make their way across her shoulders and arms. “Look at Inez. She’s tucked in the exact same way, on her side with her hands under her head. And remember how I said Ciera was every which way? She’s that same way.”

“And we would’ve heard them,” Laurel added. “It auto-sleeps for video, but stays on audio. The whole point of these things is that people want to hear their baby breathing.”

Michaela agreed, “Yeah, I can hear their breathing right now, so I definitely would have heard someone get up.”

“Maybe not over the sound of yourself trying to fight me,” Laurel considered.

“I’m sorry, I’m just frustrated,” Michaela said.

“Maybe the dolls were there before, and we just didn’t see them.”

“There before from when? We’d still have to answer that question. And why would we not see the one and only thing we’ve been sitting here looking out for?”

“Okay,” Laurel said. “Let’s put the dolls back on the shelf and see what happens.”

Michaela thought about it. “Okay. Do you want me to do it?”

Laurel nodded. “Sure. I’ll stay and watch the monitor.” Her eyes, though, were on Michaela. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” She got up and made her way to the bedroom door. She turned the knob quietly and screamed.

Her two daughters stood on the other side of the door.

“Sorry, Mommy. It’s just us,” Inez said. Laurel joined her at the doorway as she let out a huge, relieved breath.

“We couldn’t sleep,” Ciera added.

Laurel ushered the girls in. “What’s wrong?”

Ciera said, with distress in her voice, “They’re mad we didn’t bring them to show and tell.”

Everyone’s attention suddenly drew to the baby monitor. In each bed lay a Kaliyah doll poking out from the covers. Michaela’s sense that something was amiss flooded into full dread as she realized that the breathing she was hearing was not just the four of them in the room.

It was also coming through the baby monitor from the kids’ bedroom.

Inez’ voice broke. “We woke up when we felt their breath on us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the creepypasta by Pleguyfry22:
> 
> "I burned the dolls even though my children cried. They did not understand my fear because they assumed I was who moved the dolls into their beds each night."


	3. Alive (Rebecca Sutter)

It began when she was little.

  
There was only a certain threshold of fear, or humiliation, or panic she could take before the situation began to slip through her fingers. She would feel a fog wash over her, and then, nothing. The counselor they had made her see at school – before she had dropped out and before her stints in juvie - had called it dissociating, disconnecting so much from reality that she would simply pass out.

  
“Rebecca, do you remember the first time this happened to you? Did it happen in one of your foster homes?”

  
At that moment, she was hit so hard with the memory of the smell of raw eggs on a filthy floor that she almost passed out again. “Fuck off,” she’d replied, when she was finally able to gather her voice, and she later that day strolled out of school with her suspension slip in one hand and a middle finger up on the other.

  
But now she wished she had stayed to hear more about how her mind worked, because it might have helped her make sense now of how she got to this cold place, and of where this hammering sound was coming from, so loud it reverberated in her head.

  
She began to remember what had last happened to her.

Bonnie, and the plastic bag over her face. The feeling of panic and horror at being suffocated while tied up, unable to fight back. The shame that she had not been able to talk herself out of it. The futile attempts to scream through the tape on her mouth. Wishing she hadn’t turned on Wes in what she had come to understand were her last moments.

And of course the fog as she lost consciousness.

But she was alive. The hammering sound started again. In the black darkness, she reached out and hit wood. Then the sound stopped and she screamed as she felt herself, inside the thing she was in, falling. Her stomach dropped as adrenaline rushed through her. When she hit a hard surface, her head smashed into the wood she was against, dizzying her.

“Help,” she choked in a hoarse whisper. She felt aching pain from the fall in every bone of her body.

She heard the scattering of what seemed like dirt on top of her. And she realized where she was.

A coffin.

The sound of the dirt piling on the box continued. She felt herself fading as her sense of horror shot through her veins, but she tried her hardest to stay conscious. “No!” she tried to shout but her throat was so dry.

She tried hitting the box, but the sound seemed muted, and the pain in her arms stopped her from persisting. Still, the sound of dirt covering her continued.

She wondered how long she’d be down here.

Three days? That was as long as a person could go without water. Or maybe she’d run out of air before then.

She did not believe in miracle cures, but her mind had picked a fine time to behave itself.

She did not know how much time she had, but she knew she would experience every moment of it wide awake and conscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a creepypasta by vigridarena:
> 
> "I was having a pleasant dream when what sounded like hammering woke me. After that, I could barely hear the muffled sound of dirt covering the coffin over my own screams."


	4. Time (Wes Gibbins & Rose)

He didn’t get enough time with his mother.

Now that she was dead he never would, but even when she was alive, her time was often torn from him, no matter how hard she tried to be there.

His mother had always told him he’d better be in bed well before the time she got home from her late night cleaning shifts. “I better not see your eyes open, Christophe.” And always when he waited up for her she would make a point to yell at him in a perfunctory way, but he knew she was as happy to see him as he was to see her. Some days she would work overtime or cover someone else’s shift. Those were the times when he would not see her for days unless he stayed up. She’d come in quietly to look over the homework he laid out for her at his study spot on the floor. He’d sit up and listen to her chastise him. But she’d always come and sit on the bed, pull his covers over his shoulders, and stroke his hair. His mother’s hand at his head, those minimal gestures of affection she could give him on her way to and from work-sleep-work-sleep meant everything to him.

And then the worst day of his life came, the day he found her dying on the floor.

They sent him to a foster family whose warm, churchey sternness almost reminded him a little of his mother’s. They didn’t know where Haiti was - when he said his mother was from there - but they gave him a third slice of pie even when their own two kids were limited to one each. They were trying to comfort him.

He was given the bottom bunk bed to sleep in. The other boy fell quickly into restful snores as he lay and wondered what would become of him.

His eyes blinked heavily, and as he found himself drifting, he felt a hand gently stroke his hair.

“Mama?” he asked sleepily.

“You will be okay,” his mother said, sitting at the side of the bed. She continued to stroke his hair. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re ready to say goodbye.”

He fell asleep leaning into the comfort of her stroking his hair. The thing about his mama was that she always made things work, found ways to find time and be there for him as best as she could. And now his mama, somehow - some version of her with the same affection and radiance - sat near him, promising she would not leave him, and he was okay. 

She didn’t have to clean anymore. She didn’t have to take extra shifts, or stay up late to look at his homework even when he knew she was on the verge of collapsing from tiredness. She would never go anywhere.

She had nothing but time now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the creepypasta by mmikio:
> 
> "Mum always had a strange habit of stroking my hair when I sleeping, I never really minded it; it actually started to become reassuring. That changed when she died but the stroking didn't stop."


	5. Garden (Annalise Keating / Eve Rothlo)

Annalise was drunk and happy at her new law school classmate’s costume party when she bounded outside to the garden area, and that was when she saw the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, dressed like an angel in a long toga, with oversized wings and a glowing halo. The woman was standing a little apart from everyone, touching a plant leaf like she was enchanted by its texture.

“Your costume is to die for,” she uttered, when the woman turned and saw her. The woman emerged from the shadows and Annalise had an even better look at her. She was incredibly statuesque, with long waves of dark hair spilling to frame her face.

“Thanks,” she said, looking down at Annalise’s fringed mini dress. “Your flapper look is flawless. It was such a good era. Lois Armstrong was my favorite for so long.”

“I’m glad to meet someone who appreciates jazz,” Annalise said.

“Are you a law student?” She held Annalise’s gaze as if transfixed.

“Yeah, a first year. Annalise.”

The woman smiled amiably. “I’m Eve.”

“So what is an angel doing so far from home?” she asked. She took a seat at the fountain and gestured for Eve to sit beside her at the circular cement bench. The assortment of plants and gently gurgling water set a dreamy scene around them.

Eve sat beside her. “I was cast out,” she replied in a playfully cryptic tone, further drawing Annalise’s interest by her ability to play along. “I couldn’t resist coming to Earth to talk to beautiful women.”

Annalise leaned in. “And was it worth it?”

She watched Eve’s eyes drink her in. “Without question. Even though the one in charge,” she used her chin to gesture irreverently to the heavens, “has set in stone a special punishment for me.”

“Well I’ve never been great at resisting beautiful women either. He sounds hard to please and I’m glad you rebelled,” Annalise said. “How long have you been in this town?”

Eve sighed. “It feels like millennia. What about you?”

“I’m brand new to the city.”

“Explored anywhere fun yet?”

“I’ve done a few walking tours,” Annalise said. “The architecture is always nice.” She saw delighted surprise in Eve’s eyes as she continued, “I always take time to look at historical buildings downtown. The area has really nice statues-”

“Nobody could possibly love architecture that much,” Eve interjected.

Something about her tone, a blend of wonder and curiosity, stopped Annalise from being offended. “I don’t,” she said. “It’s just a thing I’ve admired.”

“Sorry,” Eve said. “I’m petrified that I’m coming across as rude. I actually live downtown - that’s where I’m at literally all the time, since I go out-“ she shrugged, “-once a year. It’s just you don’t meet a girl every day who’s so into something you’re…” She let her sentence trail.

“Well it’s nice to know you’re into the same things,” Annalise said. “Do you want to tour downtown together? It’s never too late to discover something new about where you’re from.”

Eve searched her eyes. “I don’t know if I can, but it would be lovely.”

They talked into the night. The other party-goers stumbled near them, doing their own thing, but didn’t come close. It gave them their own intimate bubble, flirtation and charm mixing in the air.

As the night went on, the black sky faded into a lighter and lighter blue, until it merged with purples and pinks and they realized the sun would come up soon.

“I can’t believe how late it is,” Annalise said. “Early, more accurately. Did we really talk through the night?”

Eve looked at the sun creeping into the sky with a stony fear in her eyes. With stiff urgency, she said, “I need to go.”

“Okay,” Annalise said. “Let’s talk again soon. I don’t have my phone book but can I grab a pen and paper inside so we can exchange numbers?”

“I don’t know, I really need to leave now.”

Annalise knew exactly what desire, what genuine interest looked like, and did not question that it was what Eve had held for her all night, but something was holding her back and she could not imagine what it was. “Do you have like a bus to catch, or..?”

Eve looked up at the sky and a resigned acceptance settled into her eyes. “You know what?” she said. “You should go inside and grab that pen and paper. I’ll stay out here.”

Annalise smiled and gave Eve’s hand a reassuring squeeze. She was startled by its rough coldness.

In the house, drunk people dozed on couches and the floor, and she stepped gingerly over them to the host’s desk. She found a pen and paper and hurried with it back to the garden.

“Eve?” she called, as the streak of the sunrise settled over the greenery. She could sense the emptiness in the garden as she emerged to the clearing with the fountain.

In the place where she and Eve had sat all night long, was a stone statue that wasn’t there before.

She felt her blood chill.

The statue was of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, in a toga with angel wings, and a halo atop her long, flowing hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this creepypasta:  
> "Met the most beautiful girl I've ever seen at a costume party. We talked into morning until she turned into stone at dawn."


	6. Scratch (Wes Gibbins / Rebecca Sutter)

He was never really around pets until he was twelve and went to a foster care family. They had a pit bull who was surprisingly sweet and loving, something he found healing as he mourned his mother. The cat would show standoffish affection as if he only vaguely liked Wes, allowing himself to be pet and then deciding to scratch him up, but Wes found that comforting as well. At night, he would leave his door closed so that he could sleep without waking up to a fur ball in his face, but they would scratch scratch scratch, sensing when he was awake and insisting on getting his attention at all costs.

The sound was back now, a scratch scratch scratch. As he lay in bed and tried to sleep, it filled his head, scratch scratch scratch, scratch scratch scratch. For a brief moment he thought about letting the dog and cat in before he remembered he was twenty-two, in his own apartment, and he had not seen those animals in six years.

And that the scratching was much much closer to his head.

He took a full minute to open his eyes and fully wake up, and when he did, he heard the desperate scratching above him, resonating from the place where the man named Rudy had put indents in the wall. Was the sound phantom – or real? With the sound hitting his ears incessantly, Wes sat up and stared at the wall. The scratches had served as evidence of Rudy’s insanity, but the landlord had for some reason chosen not to cover them up even when he’d put in new floor boards and bathroom tiles.  
Scratch scratch scratch.

“Go away,” he whispered. He did not know who he was talking to, but he could sense that the scratching was being caused by someone – or something.

Scratch scratch scratch.

“Go away!” he shouted louder.

“Wes? Are you okay?” Lying in bed beside him, Rebecca rolled over and touched him, concerned.

The scratching stopped.

“I think Rudy is dead,” Wes whispered. “I was hearing scratches. I think he’s here.”

Rebecca sat up. “Don’t say that kind of thing.”

“You didn’t hear it?” he asked. “It was so loud I couldn’t sleep.”

She reached out and touched his face. Her hands were cold, like she was outside. She said, “Nothing can wake me.”

 

Wes woke up alone, cold, clutching the black jacket Rebecca was wearing when he had last seen her alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on two creepypastas:  
> "Growing up with cats and dogs, I got used to the sounds of scratching at my door while I slept. Now that I live alone, it is much more unsettling."  
> &  
> "I can't sleep" she whispered, crawling into bed with me. I woke up cold, clutching the dress she was buried in."


End file.
